


Boundless as the Sea

by umakoo



Series: Age of Sail [1]
Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, claustrophobic imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4511724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo/pseuds/umakoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second fic in my Age of Sail AU series in which Chris is a privateer and Tom is the young new cabin boy aboard his ship. UST and slow burn romance follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boundless as the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cunninglingus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cunninglingus/gifts).



> Happy birthday to Selene and to Teresa whose birthday is coming up soon! <3 I thank all the lovely people who helped me with the fic! You rock!

**Warnings for underage (Tom is 16), age difference, attempted rape (by a minor side character) and some mild claustrophobic imagery. The timeline is not historically accurate.**

* * *

 

 

Tom had been watching them all evening from the shadows across the tavern, having snuck in through the backdoor when the cook came out to toss a bucket of rotten vegetables into the alley. There were five men, including the captain, seated at the same table as the night before, a crowd of recruits gathered around them as they waited for their turn to sign up. Three of the men were more interested in their drinks, and they broke into boisterous laughter every few minutes, their hands reaching for the serving wenches whenever they passed by the table.

 

He’d come across the men at the docks two nights ago, and he’d trailed after them, hoping they might have something in their pockets to pick. Listening in on their conversations, he’d learned they were privateers in search of able-bodied men to join their crew, captained by a man the others called Hemsworth. Tom didn’t know what life at sea would entail, having spent all his life on dry land, but it had to be better than sleeping in dank, abandoned warehouses and going through rubbish in hopes of finding something to fill his belly. This was hardly his first attempt at enlisting, and once, he’d even managed to sneak aboard an Irish merchant ship, but he’d been discovered before the ship ever set sail, and the beating he’d received had left him crippled for weeks.

 

The crowd around the table was slowly beginning to disperse, the pile of contracts growing at a steady pace. When the final recruit left the table, the captain tossed his drink back and set the tankard down with a loud clank, wiping his thickly bristled face with the cuff of his coat sleeve. The men around him let out loud belches, stumbling to their feet, and Tom’s stomach drew into a knot when he realized they were about to leave. He rushed out of the shadows and hurried across the tavern to where Captain Hemsworth was gathering up the pile of contracts to hand them to one of the men accompanying him.

 

“Oi! What are you doing here?” a mousy-looking barmaid cried out when she spotted Tom dashing past her. “How the devil did you get in?” She tried to grab at Tom’s shoulder, but he had always been quick on his feet, able to outrun almost anyone.

 

He escaped her clutches and wove his way through the maze of tables across the dimly-lit ale house. “Wait, I wish to join-“ Tom let out a high-pitched yelp when his left foot hit the leg of a chair and he went sprawling across the floor, right in front of Captain Hemsworth and his men.

 

Loud laughter broke out as they all stared at him, their tobacco stained mouths twisting with cruel amusement. Tom felt his face burn with humiliation, and the knot in his belly pulled tighter when he realized how big the captain was up close, towering over Tom like a great hulking statue. He reached down and wrapped his thick fingers around Tom’s bicep, hoisting him back to his feet with so much force that Tom nearly collided with his chest.

 

He had to crane his neck to meet the captain’s eyes, but he held his gaze as steadily as he could. “I-I wish to join your crew.”

 

The laughter around him grew almost deafening. “ _You wish to join our crew_?” one of the men echoed, his voice mocking and his gummy smile vicious. “You best run home to your mother, boy, before we box your ears.”

 

Tom was relieved to see the captain hadn’t joined the laughter, though he did seem mildly entertained. He shook his head and pointed at the bundle of contracts the man on his left clutched in his hands.

 

“I’m sorry, lad, but my crew is full.”

 

“Please, sir, can’t you make an exception?” Tom beseeched, balling his hands into fists to keep himself from grabbing the man's coat lapels in a desperate plea.

 

“Why should I?” Hemsworth scoffed, but his eyes appeared jovial. “I don’t need another mouth to feed.”

 

“But- but I don’t eat much!” Tom sputtered.

 

Hemsworth arched his brow, his eyes appraising, and Tom bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, that much is obvious.”

 

“Cap’n? Why are we wasting our time with this street urchin?” one of the men grunted. “The crew is full and we set sail in the mornin’. We best be off.”

 

Hemsworth held up his hand, and the man fell silent. Tom felt a sliver of hope bloom in his heart; he didn’t know if it was his pitiful appearance or something else that was working in his favor, but it appeared the captain was intrigued by him.

 

Tom did his best not to flinch when Hemsworth cupped his chin and tilted his head back. He hadn’t been touched in such a manner since his mother still lived, and he almost mourned the loss of the warm fingertips against his cheeks when Hemsworth withdrew his hand a moment later.

 

“How old are you, boy?”

 

Tom squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, attempting to drop his voice to a lower pitch. “I’m sixteen, sir, almost a man.”

 

“ _Sixteen?_  That’s hard to believe,” Hemsworth remarked, his brow furrowed as he took in Tom’s visibly malnourished form. "You look stunted."

 

Tom dropped his gaze on the muddy tips of his shoes. He’d spent most of his young life on the streets, living off scraps and stealing what he could, every day a struggle for survival. He knew he was small for his age, and not very pleasant to look at in his dirty blouse and breeches that barely covered his ankles.

 

“Where’s your mother?” Hemsworth asked, ignoring the impatient looks from his men. “Your father?”

 

“The pox took them … I've been on my own since I was nine.”

 

“I told you! He’s a good for nothing street urchin!” one of the men spat. “Bah!” He waved a dismissing hand in front of Tom’s face as if he wasn’t even there. “What use could he possibly have on our ship? He’ll pick our pockets in our sleep.”

 

“Those moth-eaten breeches of yours don’t have any pockets, Mr. Poole,” Hemsworth remarked with some humor, but he seemed to consider the man’s words. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the sleeves of his jacket straining against his biceps. “Mr. Poole may lack pockets in his pants, but he does have a point, lad. Why _should_  I take you in my crew?”

 

Tom licked his chapped lips, his eyes darting left and right as he wracked his brain to conjure a convincing sales pitch. “I can cook, clean, wash and mend clothes! Please, sir, all I ask is a place to sleep and some food in my belly.”

 

The men scoffed at him, his pleading words ringing hollow in their ears.

 

“The whelp sounds about as skilled as my old missus,” a stumpy man in the back guffawed. “You sure he don’t want you to marry him instead, cap’n?”

 

Hemsworth appeared unaffected by the jab, his eyes unblinking as he gave the men the order to return to their ship. The laughter died down and Tom watched as the group of sailors headed to the door, leaving him alone with the captain. Hemsworth held his gaze for a long time, the look on his face unreadable. Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He reached up to straighten the worn wool cap he wore to hide his tangled hair, trying to make himself more presentable, knowing it was a lost cause. It had been almost two months since he’d had a chance to bathe and he could feel Hemsworth’s eyes linger on the dark smudges that stained his freckled cheeks.

 

“Please?” Tom whispered, his eyes imploring. “There’s nothing for me here.”

 

Something in Hemsworth’s expression shifted and he let out a long rumbling sigh, shaking his head. “ _Fine_.”

 

He sat down at the table, the chair squeaking under his bulk, and he reached into the inner pocket of his fine velvet coat to pull out a scroll of parchment. Tom seated himself in the chair all the other recruits had used and leaned closer to peer at the scroll as it was rolled open. He could tell a lot of ink had gone into the document, but the shapes held no meaning for him.

 

Hemsworth seemed to notice his confusion. “Can you read?” he asked.

 

Tom shook his head, his cheeks burning under the layer of dirt that covered them. “No…“

 

“Mmm, I thought as much,” Hemsworth nodded, but there was no mockery in his voice. “That’s alright, I’ll read it for you.”

 

They went over the contract article by article, and the captain stopped to explain them in greater detail whenever the meaning behind the fancy words went over Tom’s head. He was no dullard, but his parents had never bothered to put him in school and despite his age, he’d had very little contact with the adult world since their passing.

 

“You agree to all the terms?” Hemsworth asked, and Tom gave an eager nod. Of course he did! It didn’t matter what the paper said, he would agree to stand on one leg all the way across the Atlantic if it meant getting out of Liverpool. The captain gave him a stern look, quelling some of Tom’s excitement. “This is no pleasure cruise, lad. You understand that we will engage the Spanish in battle? That means you could lose your life.”

 

Tom tried to smother the fear the captain’s words sparked in his heart before it had a chance to spread and make him reconsider. “Yes… I understand.”

 

There was a quill and a small inkwell on the table from earlier and Hemsworth took the plume in his hand, dipping it into the black liquid. “I assume you can’t write either?”

 

Tom shook his head. “My mother was ill a lot and I had to look after her while my father worked at the coal mines… I never had a chance to learn my letters.”

 

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Hemsworth said. “Most grown men I know can barely spell their own name.” He reached into his pocket to pull out an empty scrap of paper and tapped the quill against the neck of the bottle. “Well then, what’s your name?”

 

“Thomas William Hiddleston, sir.”

 

Hemsworth chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s a mouthful.”

 

“Just ‘Tom’ is fine.”

 

“Alright, Tom, I’m going to show you how to write down your name and then you’ll have to copy it on the contract to make it legal and binding.”

 

Transfixed, Tom watched as the captain moved the quill across the paper, drawing dark lines that curled and twisted prettily. Knowing that they formed Tom’s own name made it even more exciting. When he was done, Hemsworth gave the quill to Tom and he rose up to circle around the table, hovering behind Tom as he began to draw the first letter.

 

“That’s a ‘T’. It’s easy enough,” Hemsworth murmured, keeping a close eye on Tom’s hand as it drew two wobbly lines on the paper, the quill scratching against the dry vellum.

 

Tom’s cheeks began to burn as he felt Hemsworth shift behind him and lean even closer. The air in the inn was stuffy and grey with tobacco smoke, but Tom could smell the captain’s musk, and underneath it, a slight scent of tar. He felt nervous under such close scrutiny, his hand shaking as he dipped the quill into the pot, cursing at the way the ink dripped from the tip, leaving a trail of dark stains on the paper. It took him almost a quarter of an hour to write down his name, and when it was finally done, Hemsworth took the parchment in his hands for a closer inspection. He gave an approving nod, willing to ignore the dark blotches around each letter.

 

“You’re a little old to be a cabin boy, but you’re too scrawny to be handling the sails and riggings, so that’ll have to do, at least for now.” He offered his hand to Tom, his grip firm and the skin on his palm rough as they shook hands. “Welcome to my crew, Tom.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was easy to bid farewell to his old life, for Tom had no personal possessions. His family was gone and no one in Liverpool would miss him, though Tom did consider seeking out Matthew Cobble and Mary Reed to tell them he was leaving, but they hadn’t been on good terms since they’d let Tom get caught stealing a loaf of bread from Mr. Brown’s little shop at the market square. Before they set sail, Tom was told to head to the inn at the harbor, and he was treated to a hot bath upstairs by one of the serving wenches. He didn’t know who his Good Samaritan was, but he was even given a bar of soap, a luxury he hadn't known since his mother was still alive. He soaked himself in the tub until the water turned lukewarm and nearly black from the layer of dirt Tom had scrubbed off his skin.

 

When he’d finally climbed out of the tub and toweled himself dry, Tom was delighted to discover someone had left him a set of clean slops in the other room. The clothes were hand-me-downs and a size too big, hanging awkwardly on his thin frame, but he cherished the feel of freshly laundered cotton against his skin. His new uniform consisted of dark canvas breeches, a simple white blouse and a short, navy blue wool jacket. Tom pulled the jacket over his shoulders and brushed his fingers against the brass buttons that framed the hems, feeling like he was in his Sunday bests.

 

He’d never been aboard anything bigger than a leaky fishing boat, and he was buzzing with a mixture of excitement and nervous trepidation as he walked up the creaky gangway and stepped onto the deck of the Trade Wind. She was a re-fitted merchant ship, and before that, she’d served as a war ship against the French. She had a crew of eighty men, which, according to one of the new deckhands was nothing to write home about. Tom begged to disagree, struck by the ship’s sheer size and presence as he walked around the deck of his new home, stumbling in the crowd of sailors, his head turned skyward. She’d been through a hurricane on her way to England and some of the men were still making last-minute repairs to the main mast. The smell of tar and wood shavings was strong enough to cover the usual stench of fresh-caught fish that pervaded the harbor, and Tom decided he quite liked the earthy combination of the two scents.

 

The sea was calm when they set out in the early hours of the morning. The fires in the street lamps that lined the waterfront were beginning to go out and the city beyond was nothing but grey mass in the thick morning mist. Tom hadn’t been called to duty yet, and he leaned over the larboard side bulwark to watch how the wooden hull split the dark waters around them as the ship began to move. He filled his lungs with the crisp sea air, his entire being so light it felt as if he were floating. He was getting out of Liverpool, away from its muddy streets and sour-faced people who hated him for simply trying to survive. He turned his face to the helm where Captain Hemsworth stood behind the wheel while his quartermaster yelled orders to the crew as men climbed up and down the ratlines. The captain met Tom's eyes briefly, his expression stern as he focused on navigating the ship out of the harbor.

 

Tom was given his own hammock and he was told to hang it in the berth where he’d sleep with the rest of the crew. He’d slept in all manner of places where no decent person would ever want to lay their head, but when Tom descended the ladder to the lower decks for the first time, he was struck with an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia. There was no natural light in the bowels of the ship when the gun ports were closed and the ceiling on each deck was so low that many of the men had to walk in a permanent crouch. The berth also served as a gun deck and the space was cramped with cannons, kegs and fat wooden barrels. It didn’t surprise Tom when he was ushered into a small space below the ladders where the traffic between decks was always high. It was better than spending the night under a half-rotten fishing boat, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get any sleep with the way the ship rocked from side to side as it rode the waves.

 

They were served a light breakfast when the city had disappeared into the horizon, just a mug of grogg, some oatmeal and biscuits, but it was more than Tom had eaten in days. His stomach was so empty it ached, but it seemed the universe had decided to play a cruel joke on him, for he could feel his breakfast rising back from his belly as the steady swaying of the ship made him nauseous. He hurried up the ladder to scamper up to the main deck, and he let out a pitiful moan as he emptied his stomach over the railing, his breakfast disappearing into the sea. Tom jumped when he felt warm, weather-roughened fingers clasp his shoulder and settle at his nape. 

 

"I take it this is your first time at sea?" Hemsworth asked, his blue eyes amused.

 

Tom hurried to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Aye," he nodded shakily. “The ship rocks something awful…”

 

“That she does, but you need to learn to move with her, Tom, let her guide your steps.” Hemsworth brushed the curls at Tom’s nape with his thumb before pulling away and heading to the helm. "Don't worry,” he called over his shoulder, “you’ll find your sea legs soon enough.”

 

The crew on the ship hailed from all over England. From Bristol, London, Norwich and Southampton. Some of the men had joined them from the American colonies and they even had a couple of Swedes among the deckhands. Tom soon discovered that he was the youngest person aboard the ship and as such, he was below every other crew member in rank. The tasks he was given were menial, but Tom enjoyed them no matter how much the older men scoffed at them. They kept him busy from early morning to the moment he got to climb into his hammock after the first watch had begun. His days consisted of scrubbing the deck, helping Mr. Hobbs in the galley and running across the ship delivering messages. His favorite thing was to run errands for the captain, for it made him feel like he had a proper purpose not only on the ship, but in his life.

 

Listening in on the conversations belowdecks, Tom learned that Captain Hemsworth was in his early-thirties and he hailed from Dover. Tom thought this odd, for he had noticed there was a strong hint of a foreign accent in the man’s voice.

 

“I ‘eard he grew up in the Australian colonies,” one of the new riggers gossiped at the dinner table.

 

“He’s descended from convicts?” the man sitting next to him asked, his eyes narrowed.

 

“Makes sense, don’t it?” the rigger nodded, swallowing a spoonful of beans. “They say he stowed away on a merchant ship and made his way to England as a lad. Never got rid of the accent, though. You can ‘ear it plain as day when he forgets to watch himself.”

 

The captain’s face bore the marks of life at sea, of long days in the boiling sun and harsh winds, but he was still a handsome man, his long frock made of fine burgundy velvet. He wasn’t overly friendly with the crew and he took his dinners alone in his cabin, spending his leisure whittling on a piece of wood and making sure things on the ship ran smoothly. 

 

"Typical Navy hound," Mr. Poole grumbled when the captain passed them on his way to the prow, his keen eyes lingering on the visible stains in the sail cloth Mr. Poole and Tom were mending.

 

Despite his disciplined past, Hemsworth was a charismatic man and someone who held the crew's respect. Tom, too, was eager to please. Each night, Mr. Hobbs sent him into the captain’s cabin with a silver tray and Tom got to serve him his dinner, but being a mere cabin boy, he knew he wasn’t allowed to make idle conversation with the captain, so he mostly kept his eyes down and his mouth shut whenever he was in Hemsworth’s presence. Which is why it came as a surprise to him when one night, Hemsworth struck up a conversation with him after his evening meal.

 

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, indicating that he was done with his dinner, and Tom moved closer to gather the cutlery and the empty plates on the tray. He reached over for the wine goblet, but the captain was quicker, handing it to Tom, their fingers brushing briefly at the contact. Tom glanced up and heat flared on his cheeks when he saw the captain was watching him closely.

 

“How do you find life at sea, Tom?” Hemsworth asked, the clink of silverware loud in the silence that followed as Tom struggled to find his voice.

 

“I find it most pleasing, sir,” Tom said, his mouth curving up to a cautious smile. “My father once took me to Manchester, but that’s the furthest I’ve been from Liverpool until now.”

 

“The world is far larger than you think, Tom,” the captain remarked. He motioned for Tom to set the tray aside and reached for one of the maps stored in a box by the desk. “Come here,” he said, waving Tom closer as he spread the map out on the desk.

 

Tom rarely left his place by the door when he waited for Hemsworth to finish his meal. He moved to stand by the captain’s chair, his shoulders squared and his hands crossed behind his back. He watched as the captain pointed his finger on a spot of land on the map, tapping it with his nail.

 

“This is where we set sail.”

 

“England,” Tom said tentatively, the nod from the captain making him a bit bolder. He pressed his palms to the table and leaned down for a closer look as Hemsworth traced his finger on the map and stopped somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, between a coiling sea serpent and a detailed rendition of a sailing vessel.

 

“This is where we are now.” His fingers made a jump towards a cluster of islands further below. "And this is where we're heading. The Spaniards sail those waters with cargos full of gold and silver from the New World."

 

Tom's eyes brightened at the mention of such riches, but it was hard to imagine something he'd never seen. He moved his gaze across the map to the edges of the yellowing paper where snarling sea creatures slithered between large, puffy clouds. “Have you ever been to the edge, sir?” Tom asked. When there was no answer, he glanced up and realized he was being watched. The captain appeared lost in thought, a faint smile on his lips, his eyes fixed on Tom's face. "Sir?" 

 

Hemsworth blinked and turned his eyes back to the map. “The edge of the world?” he asked, scratching at his bristled chin. “I reckon any man who claims to have seen the edge is lying through their teeth. But I have been to Cape Town in my youth.” He pointed his finger at a large continent in the middle of the map. “All the way down in Africa.”

 

 _Af-ri-ca_ , Tom mouthed to himself and he leaned his forearms against the table and hunched down to study the spot. The cook would flog him for acting so casual around the captain, but Tom had all but forgotten himself, talk of faraway lands enticing.

 

“Lots of pirates sail those waters.” The captain leaned back in his chair, the glint in his eyes a tad mischievous. “They say the Cape of Good Hope is the spot where the _Flying Dutchman_  sank into the fathoms… You’ve heard of it?”

 

“Aye!” Tom spun around and sat himself on the edge of the table. “A ghost ship condemned to sail the seas forever and ever. They say you can see her if you gaze into the eye of a storm. But you really shouldn’t look, for anyone who sights the ship and her captain dies a terrible death!”

 

A sudden draft from the open windowpane behind them sent the candles on the table flickering, the shadows around them growing larger. A quiet whimper escaped Tom’s mouth before he could bite his lip to prevent it. The captain’s eyes widened and Tom knew he’d heard it. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth and gave a sheepish smile.

 

Hemsworth observed Tom from under his brows. “There are lots of strange animals in that corner of the world,” he said, and Tom was glad for the change of subject. “Elephants, zebras, giraffes-“

 

“What’s a gii-raaffe?” Tom asked, the name so silly he wondered if the captain was tricking him.

 

Hemsworth grinned. “It’s a large mammal that’s covered in spots like a leopard and its neck is so long it can reach the treetops.”

 

Tom gave the captain an incredulous look, his nose wrinkling. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you, sir?”

 

Hemsworth flashed him a broad smile and raised his palms up. “It’s the honest truth.”  They fell into a comfortable silence, and the captain got up and crossed the room to pour himself a glass of port. Tom blinked, finally remembering his place. He jumped off the table and hurried to pick up the tray.

 

“Will that be all, sir?” he asked politely.

 

Hemsworth frowned, and it almost seemed like Tom wasn’t the only one who had forgotten the hierarchy that separated them aboard the ship. He took a sip from his glass, his gaze assessing. “How is the rest of the crew treating you?” he asked.

 

Tom had always been good at making himself invisible and disappearing in a crowd, and most days, the older men paid little attention to him. There had been the occasional attempt at half-hearted hazing when the men were bored and idle, but it was nothing Tom couldn’t handle, and there were plenty of small nooks and crannies for him to hide in if he needed to disappear.

 

Hemsworth’s voice was stilted when he spoke, and Tom took note of the way his shoulders seemed to grow suddenly stiff. “They’re not… _overly familiar_ with you, are they?”

 

Tom shook his head, confused. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir? The men barely talk to me unless it’s to give an order or relay a message.”

 

The captain appeared visibly bewildered by his response and Tom wondered if he was being naïve about something. Hemsworth gave a nod, his shoulders relaxing. “That’s good.” He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the navigational charts spread upon the table. “Alright, Tom, you may go. And give my compliments to Mr. Hobbs. The beef was excellent tonight and there were hardly any weevils in the bread.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Spanish Main was still many weeks away, but the weather was getting notably warmer and the sea was stormier than in the north. They had yet to see any Spaniards, but Tom often wondered about the part he’d play when they eventually engaged the enemy in battle. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed in the boarding crew, for he had never even brandished a sword, but he still enjoyed listening in on the stories the older sailors told of all the battles they’d seen. Tales full of swashbuckling and gun powder, all of them no doubt more than a little exaggerated, but all the more entertaining for it.

 

They hadn’t run into much trouble during the first half of the voyage. Hemsworth was a strict but fair man, never punishing anyone without proper reason and a man with such admirable character inspired obedience. The first time Tom saw him get involved in the crew’s affairs was when one of the men from Liverpool was caught organizing a gambling ring belowdecks. The man had cheated his crew mates out of the few coins in their pockets, which led to an angry brawl, and he was put in irons, his contract made void for breaking the articles.

 

Hemsworth barely acknowledged Tom when he was up on the deck, though Tom often felt his eyes following him keenly as he went about doing his daily duties. He also thought he caught the captain watching the rest of the crew whenever Tom was around some of the rowdier men, and it almost felt like he was keeping an eye on them, his expression grim. It was only in the evenings that their interaction became more casual, and to Tom’s surprise, Hemsworth showed genuine interest in his affairs, asking him about his life in Liverpool when Tom served him his evening meal. The man was Tom’s senior by several years, a fact that caused Tom initially to be a little nervous around him, but it didn’t take long for him to start prattling about his life on the streets, his inhibitions forgotten as Hemsworth encouraged him with kind smiles and further inquiries.

 

“Should you ever find yourself living on the streets, it’s best to avoid sleeping under windows,” Tom said, his cheeks dimpling with a hint of mischief.

 

The captain looked up from his plate, his brow furrowed. “Oh? Why is that?”

 

“I reckon you don’t want to be woken by a cold shower from a chamber pot,” Tom snickered, the horrified look on Hemsworth’s face making his smile even broader.

 

“Ah,” the captain nodded. “That is sound advice, indeed.” He took one look at the mackerel stew on his plate and reached for his napkin.

 

Tom hurried over to clear the table, his eyes a little apologetic for ruining the captain’s appetite. Hemsworth took a sip from his goblet, the look on his face thoughtful as he watched Tom clear the table.

 

“May I ask what happened to you after your parents passed away? How did you end up living on the streets?”

 

Tom glanced up, the question catching him a little off guard. “They put me in an orphanage,” he grumbled, his mouth twisting into a sour line. He’d done his best to forget about his time at the Safe Harbor home for children, but he could still remember the cruel taunts the older children used to yell at him, the way they snatched his food from his hands and stole his shoes when he slept. “I didn’t stay there for long, though....”

 

“You ran away?” There was something raw in the captain’s voice and his eyes appeared glassy, as if he’d seen a ghost.

 

“Aye…” Tom nodded, his brows drawing into a furrow. He remembered the gossip he’d heard about the captain’s past in the colonies, and he wondered if he, too, had lost his parents at a young age. “Were you… were you an orphan, too, sir?”

 

Hemsworth blinked but the glazed look in his eyes remained. He cleared his throat and gave a curt nod. “Aye… “

 

Tom knew he was over the line again, but he was itching to know more, and the question slipped out before he could stop himself. “Is it true what the men say about you growing up in a penal colony in Australia, sir?”

 

The captain appeared surprised by his question, as if he hadn’t expected the crew to gossip about such things and Tom to know about it. “Aye, it’s true,” he nodded, and Tom was relieved to see he didn’t look angry. “I grew up in Parramatta, but my mother was from Dover,” he said, his accent growing thick. “She was sent across the sea to Rose Hill penal colony for petty larceny.” Hemsworth shook his head and let out a humorless huff of laughter. “In truth, she stole a chicken and a bit of cabbage to fill her belly.”

 

Tom’s eyes went wide with sheer disbelief. He’d filched plenty of things over the years: food and drink and clean clothes from washing lines. He’d even broken into a few bathhouses for a quick wash in the dead of the night. Had he not been nimble on his feet and able to make a quick escape, would he have shared the same fate for his own crimes?

 

“One of the guards at the factory she was sent to got to her soon after her arrival, and nine months later, she had a bastard son. We stayed in Parramatta after she had served her sentence, and she was briefly hitched to a foul-tempered merchant, but the man got himself knifed in the back for failing to pay his gambling debts.”

 

Tom blinked, taken aback, for it almost sounded like the captain was talking about Tom’s own father. He had worked long hours to put food on the table and to pay for his mother’s medicine, but whenever her condition got worse, he would disappear for weeks, and his hard-earned coins were lost on gambling and liquor. Sometimes strange men would appear at their door, asking after him, their eyes full of menace, and if the pox hadn’t taken him, Tom was sure his father would have perished in a knife fight.

 

“My mother became ill when I was thirteen and I was sent to a children’s home soon after…” Hemsworth’s expression grew shuttered, and Tom could tell the captain’s memories weren’t any happier than his own. “Like you, I ran away and made my way to Europe as a stowaway on a Dutch merchant ship. I was discovered when we stopped in Jakarta, but the captain was a kind man and instead of tossing me overboard, he made me part of his crew.”

 

Hemsworth drained the remaining wine in his goblet, and Tom took note of the slight tremble in his fingers as he set it on the tray. He could guess the captain didn’t share the story about his convict mother and his past in the colonies very often, and he wondered how many people aboard the ship had heard more than gossip about it. The room fell silent and Tom went back to clearing the table, but as he watched the captain from the corner of his eye, it was as if he was seeing the man for the first time, the knowledge of their shared experiences making him feel a strange kinship with him.

 

“Ah, I nearly forgot!” Hemsworth said suddenly, and Tom watched as he stood up to fetch something from across the cabin. It turned out to be a box made of cherrywood, and he unlocked it with a tiny silver key from his pocket. Inside, Tom caught a glimpse of an important-looking document, which he guessed must have been the letter of marque that allowed them to legally intercept enemy vessels. He watched as Hemsworth picked something out of the box and hid it behind his back.

 

"Do you recall our conversation about Africa?" the captain asked, his smile playful.

 

"Yes?" Tom nodded a little hesitantly. "You told me about giraffes." He watched as Hemsworth held out his hand. In his palm was a tiny, intricately carved wooden animal.

 

Tom blinked, staring at the figure. He looked up and met the Captain's smiling eyes.

 

"Go on, take it," Hemsworth laughed, pushing his hand closer.

 

"It's for me?" Tom gasped, the unexpected act of kindness leaving him bewildered.

 

"It's not very life-like, but I hope you like it," Hemsworth said, his eyes fond as he watched Tom run the tip of his finger carefully along the neck of the tiny giraffe.

 

"Thank you, sir, it's beautiful," Tom exhaled, closing his fingers gently around the carving.

 

"Wasn’t pulling your leg," Hemsworth chuckled. He cleared his throat and crossed his hands behind his back, pacing a little. "I do have something else for you, Tom. A proposition of sorts.”

 

Tom looked up from the giraffe, his brows arched curiously. “A proposition, sir?”

 

“How would you like it if I taught you how to read and write?”

 

Tom’s mouth fell open, and he gaped like a fish. Even his own parents hadn't thought him worthy of learning such a skill. “ _You_  would teach me, sir? Truly?”

 

Hemsworth nodded, the small crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening with his smile. “You’re sixteen, Tom, almost a man. You don’t want to be a cabin boy forever, do you?”

 

Tom shook his head. Of course he didn’t. But he couldn’t believe the captain was willing to offer his precious time to teach someone like Tom such valuable skills. “Thank you, captain,” he breathed, barely able to contain his excitement. “But I don’t know how I’ll ever repay your kindness.”

 

Hemsworth held up his hand and shook his head. “There’s no need to repay me,” he said, “but you’ll do well to keep quiet about our little arrangement around the rest of the crew. You don’t want them to find out you’re getting special treatment from the captain, do you?” he said with a rasping chuckle.

 

“No, sir, of course not,” Tom agreed, but the thought of having such a privilege lightened his step and plastered a permanent smile on his face as he made his way back to the galley.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They began Tom’s lessons the next night. Tom made sure he’d finished all his duties and he sat down long enough to down his daily rations of grogg, ham and biscuits before he headed up to the captain’s cabin. He gave a polite knock on the multi-colored glass window on the door and heard a voice asking for him to enter.

 

Tom had never been in the captain’s quarters afterhours and he was taken aback when he saw Hemsworth had removed his long, velvet frock and the many belts that always hung low on his hips. He stood by the bay window in nothing but a loose white blouse and canvas breeches, his sun-bleached hair undone from its usual plait. He looked so casual, as if he was about to turn in for the night, that Tom hesitated, wondering if he had misunderstood something.

 

“I’m here for my lessons,” he said, tongue thick in his mouth.

 

“Yes, I know,” Hemsworth smiled, motioning for Tom to take a seat at his desk. The polished surface had been cleared of the many maps and charts that normally took up most of the space. In their place was a single large sheet of vellum with several horizontal lines covering it from top to bottom. “I thought we’d start with the basics, teach you your letters and numbers.”

 

Tom took a seat in the large wooden chair, the feather cushioning soft under his rump. He drew the paper closer and inspected it with keen eyes, guessing the shapes at the beginning of each line were letters. Hemsworth moved to stand behind him, reaching for the quill that was set neatly by the inkwell. He dipped it into the bottle and took hold of Tom’s right hand to set the quill into his fingers. Tom blinked, taking in the sheer size of the captain’s hand as his calloused palm covered the back of Tom’s own hand, his fingers moving Tom’s slender digits into the correct position.

 

“I want you to copy each letter on the designated lines, as many times as you can until you reach the end,” Hemsworth instructed, guiding Tom’s hand to the vellum until the tip of the quill touched the paper next to the neatly-drawn letter “A”. Tom studied the shape of the lines carefully before he started to copy them down, the captain’s hand still holding onto his own, guiding its movement as Tom began to draw.

 

“Good,” Hemsworth murmured, his voice a low rumble in Tom’s ear. He brushed his thumb against Tom's pink knuckle and leaned back to circle the table as Tom continued to work, watching him closely, ready to come back and correct him whenever one of his letters began to take the wrong shape.

 

Tom bit his tongue when one of his Bs turned into an unsalvageable black smudge. “I’m sorry, it has so many curves and-“

 

“It’s alright Tom, take your time,” Hemsworth said, his voice kind and patient. “You’re doing well.”

 

Tom felt his face flush with a peculiar kind of warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment, and for the first time in years, he felt proud of himself. They were three bells into the first watch when Tom had finally filled each line with wobbly letters. His hand ached from the strain and he had trouble opening his fist, but the captain was behind him again to pry the quill from Tom’s stiff fingers. He set the dark plume aside and took Tom’s hand in his large paws, massaging the knuckles and tendons with gentle fingers. Tom flushed, this time out of sheer embarrassment. There was something oddly intimate about the gesture, and Tom was horrified to realize the sudden tightness in his belly felt like arousal. He gave a light yank, and the captain let go of his hand.

 

“You did a fine job, Tom. I think we can move on to numbers in our next lesson,” Hemsworth said, his voice a little strained. He spun the parchment into a neat roll and gave it to Tom to keep and memorize. “You best be off now, get some sleep while you can."

 

Tom nodded, making sure to thank the captain before scurrying off to find his hammock in the berth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They continued Tom’s lessons almost every night as they made their way south towards the trade routes. The captain seemed genuinely invested in his role as Tom’s new mentor, but there were nights when he was busy with his own duties, and Tom was given no invitation to join him at his cabin. Tom hadn't received any proper education, but he was far from stupid, and he found their lessons a joy and the thought of getting to spend time in the captain's company kept him going through the day.

 

Tom did have his bad nights, and there were times when his eyes were bleary with exhaustion from running around the ship all day. Some evenings he’d be tempted to break his quill and crumble his parchments, pouting like a petulant child when he made a mistake.

 

“Try again, Tom,” the captain would say, taking hold of Tom’s hand to guide it back to the paper.

 

Hemsworth proved to be an endlessly patient man, enduring Tom’s fumbles and frustrated bouts of anger, and by the end of the first week, Tom was able to write down his own name and the name of their ship and her captain. He kept repeating the name ‘Christopher’ to himself when he laid in his hammock after their lesson, liking the way it rolled off his tongue, a twinge of shame coloring his cheeks for reasons beyond Tom’s understanding.

 

One night, the cook let him go a little earlier and Tom arrived at the captain’s door before the dog watch was called up on deck. He was invited in, but he froze at the door when he saw the captain was busy lathering his face with shaving cream. He’d kicked off his boots and the strings of his cotton blouse were undone, the neckline revealing a sliver of bronzed skin.

 

Tom swallowed, averting his eyes. "I'm sorry, I-I..."

 

“It’s alright, Tom, you can come in,” Hemsworth nodded, beckoning Tom to come closer. "This won't take long."

 

Tom’s writing exercises were already laid out on the desk, but next to them stood a large round looking glass, a jar full of lather and a straight razor, the sharp blade glinting in the light of the nearby lantern. Tom watched as Hemsworth picked up the razor, placing it against his cheek and sliding it down towards his neck with one fluid motion. Tom’s own father had kept his face unshaven, and Tom had never seen how it was done. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Hemsworth let out a huff of amused laughter. He left most of his beard untouched, focusing on the spots where the whiskers were greying, and on the stubble that covered the underside of his jaw. When he was done, he cleaned his face with a cloth of wet cotton, his eyes on Tom.

 

“Come here,” Hemsworth beckoned.

 

Tom took a seat in his chair, and the captain cupped his chin with his left hand, the pads of his fingers pressing gently into the soft skin around Tom's jaw. He tilted Tom’s face left and right, his eyes considering. “There’s not a whisker on you, boy,” Hemsworth laughed, “but would you like me to show you how to shave?”

 

Tom nodded, eager to learn. “Yes, please, captain,” he beamed.

 

Hemsworth seemed to consider something as he cast a brief sideways glance at the closed door. “I suppose you could call me Chris when I’m not on deck and it’s just the two of us like now.”

 

Tom’s eyes grew wide and he leaned into the fingers that held his chin in a loose grip. “Alright,” he nodded, unable to hide the smile that tugged at his lips.

 

Chris fetched a warm cloth and placed it around Tom’s face to prepare his skin for the razor. “This part is a bit unnecessary since your skin is quite smooth to begin with.”

 

He did a quick job of cleaning the instruments and turned the chair around to face the windows so he was able to kneel between Tom’s parted thighs. Tom’s face was heated from the warm towel, and the blush that rose to his cheeks barely showed, but Chris’s eyes crinkled knowingly. He dipped the brush in the jar of lather and took hold of Tom’s jaw, tilting his head from side to side as he moved the soft hairs over his skin.

 

“Your face is getting rounder,” Chris noted, his eyes lingering on the small burst of freckles that covered Tom’s nose and the upper expanse of his cheeks. “Hard to believe when the meals Mr. Hobbs prepares us mostly consist of weevils.”

 

Tom laughed, but he went still when he saw Chris reach for the razor. “It’s alright, I won’t hurt you,” Chris hummed. He held the razor in front of Tom’s face to show him the proper way to hold it. “The first three fingers go on the back of the blade, like this.” The chair let out a creak as he leaned closer, his large bulk forcing Tom’s thighs to part even further. “Alright, are you ready?”

 

Tom took a deep breath and nodded. He felt Chris clasp a hand behind his neck and take a firm grip of his hair to keep him from moving as he set the razor against Tom’s cheek.

 

“Slow, even strokes,” Chris instructed, his accent a little thicker than usual, “like so.”

 

Tom hummed quietly, afraid to move even an inch. He kept his eyes on Chris’s face, trying to ignore the cold blade as it glided down his cheek. Chris’s brow was furrowed in deep concentration, but it was obvious he had done this a thousand times and the skill was in his bones. Tom began to relax, his shoulders falling against the back of the chair. Chris tilted Tom’s head further back, and Tom heard the way Chris’s breath hitched ever so slightly as the milky white skin of his neck was revealed to his eyes. He moved the razor along the sensitive area below Tom’s jaw, his eyes a shade darker than before as they followed the gentle bob of Tom's Adam's apple.

 

Tom became aware of Chris’s weight between his thighs, the way they were pushed apart every time Chris inhaled, and he had to close his eyes when his groin tightened with sudden arousal. He gasped, flinching under the razor.

   
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Chris asked, alarmed by Tom's reaction.

 

Tom kept his eyes down and attempted to shift his hips to put some distance between them. "No, I just..."

 

He felt the weight of the razor lift from his neck. Chris averted his eyes for a moment and coughed into his fist as he got up to his feet. “Alright, I think we’re done,” he said, his voice a little rough. Chris set the razor aside and reached for a moist towel, patting it against Tom’s face to clean any lingering traces of lather. He brushed his thumb against the soft skin just under Tom’s bottom lip, and Tom mourned its loss when he felt it pull away.

 

"Right. Ready for your lesson?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was close to midnight when Tom returned belowdecks, and most of the men were asleep in their hammocks. He was surprised to find Mr. Fletcher, one of the deckhands, hanging about at the foot of the ladder that led down to the berth. Tom wondered if the man had been waiting for him, for his hammock was on the other side of the cramped deck. Fletcher regarded Tom with narrowed, watchful eyes and he refused to move as Tom attempted to walk past him on the steep ladder.

 

“Back from another pleasant evening with the captain?” he drawled, his dry, chapped lips stretching into a cruel smile. “What goes on behind those closed doors, I wonder…”

 

Tom frowned, his brows knitting together in panic-laced anger. He tried to force the older man aside, but Fletcher grabbed hold of his hand, his sweaty fingers bruising around Tom’s wrist.

 

“You know what I think?” he hissed, his coal-black eyes narrowed into slits. “I think you spend your evenings on your knees, sucking the captain’s cock with that pretty little mouth of yours while he-“

 

Tom wrenched his hand free and forced his way past Mr. Fletcher, hurrying to his hammock below the ladder. He could hear the man’s wheezing laughter as he climbed up to the main deck for a smoke. He clutched at his overgrown curls and buried his face into the crook of his arm. Where in God’s name did the man get such ideas about Tom and their captain?

 

It wasn’t long before the berth had fallen as quiet as it would ever get, the steady creak of the hull lulling Tom to restless sleep. Images of large hands engulfing his own filled his dreams, and his lips parted in a quiet sigh. He felt the rough scrape of whiskers against his smooth skin, lips on his neck, his hands pressing against hard muscle-

 

Tom cried out as he came into his breeches, the wet splash waking him from his dreams. He blinked against the dark shadows that danced on the walls around the lanterns where they hung from the beams above the men’s sleeping forms. Tom let out a shaky breath. The dream was already lost to him, but in its wake lingered a warm, content feeling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their lessons came to a halt when the weather turned rough soon after they had passed a cluster of islands the men called Bermuda. Chris decided it was better to face the storm head on than try to go around it and add another week to their long voyage. They had seen some bad weather along the way, but Tom had never been in a proper storm. He stood at the prow to avoid getting in the way as the men prepared for the coming ordeal, watching the billowing sea. The waves seemed to gather mass with every heave, lifting them towards the skies as the Trade Wind climbed on top of the crest before plummeting down, the drop making Tom’s stomach lurch. Fat storm clouds hung low in the horizon, and Tom was tempted to look away, vivid memories of the _Dutchman_  flooding his mind.

 

A strong gust of wind punched through the sails above his head and the ship lurched to the left. Tom let out a small yelp as he lost his footing, but a strong hand grabbed hold of his arm just as he was about to stumble into the bulwark. Chris held him until the ship had swung back from the low dip, his feet steady as he followed her movement.

 

“You best head belowdecks, Tom. Find a good spot clear of falling debris and sit tight.”

 

Tom craned his neck to meet Chris’s eyes. “Will we be alright?”

 

Chris leaned his hands against the bulwark and peered at the massing storm front. “The sea is fickle by nature, but if you respect her, she might just spare you.”

 

Tom wrinkled his nose. “That’s not very comforting…”

 

“We’ll be fine, Tom,” Chris smirked. “I’ve seen my share of storms.” He gave the lapels of Tom’s jacket a light tug. “Go on, now,” he urged. “I’ll come down and let you know when it’s safe to come up.”

 

Tom took one last look at the dark clouds and scurried across the deck just as the sky above them opened and the first heavy droplets began to patter down.

 

Many of the lower ranking crew members were ordered belowdecks as the fierce October storm began to rock the Trade Wind, tossing her from wave top to wave top. Tom had squeezed himself between two large barrels, his back pressed against the sturdy bulk of the ship’s hull. The floor was covered in sawdust and the flecks dug into his palms where they were pressed against the planks. He tried to ignore the loud crash of water against wood and the terrible howl of the wind as it ripped at the masts and sails. There were times when he had to close his eyes, for seeing the frightened looks on the faces of men twice as old and experienced as Tom was enough to strike fear in his own heart. He reached into his pocket and took out the giraffe Chris had made for him, squeezing it in his sweaty palm, the tiny details in the wood etching into his skin.

 

Loud shouts came from the upper decks and there was constant traffic on the ladder as men ran up and down to patch the hull and man the pumps down below. Three of the lamps blew out when the ship plummeted into a deep canyon between the heaving waves, but no one bothered to light them again and the darkness around Tom grew deeper. He pulled the scarf around his neck to cover his face when the air began to smell of vomit, watching as the men worked hard to tighten the ropes around the cannons as they threatened to come loose. He wondered how Chris was doing up at the helm, if he was strong enough against the unforgiving elements, or if it was only a matter of time before he lost control of the ship. Tom shook his head. No, Chris wouldn’t let that happen. As long as he was at the helm, the Trade Wind would not sink.

 

The storm raged on for nearly two days, and when the sea finally calmed, many of the crew had suffered minor injuries. Tom had not moved from his spot between the barrels and he was unharmed, but he was utterly exhausted, his eyes staring into empty space.

 

A cheerful voice from the ladder brought him back from his stupor.

 

“Morning, lads. I trust no one down here is well rested,” Chris chuckled, peering into the berth where men lay in and out of their hammocks, their faces pale but relieved. “Anyone injured?”

 

There were some low grunts, but one by one the men got up to their feet, wanting to appear strong and able in front of their captain. Tom, too, forced himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees. He watched as Chris descended the ladder and stepped into the dimly-lit berth. He cast his eyes around the cramped space, as if in search of something or someone. Tom stepped out from his little hideout between the barrels and the relief on Chris’s face when he finally saw him made something warm flutter in Tom’s belly.

 

Chris gave a small nod in Tom’s general direction and turned to address the rest of the crew. “The storm is behind us, but I’m afraid our old lady is in need of some patching up,” he said, and gave the wooden beam above his head an affectionate pat. “There’s a small cluster of uninhabited islands about twenty miles to the south. We’ll drop anchor there tonight and get her in top shape, won’t we lads?”

 

The men gave a hearty cheer and began to head to the ladder to climb topside. Chris made his way to Tom, his clothes soaked and his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Tom took note of the large gash that ran across his cheek, some of the blood clumped in his beard. He reached out on instinct, but Chris caught his wrist before Tom’s fingers could reach his face, lowering it gently. Tom realized his mistake when he saw one of the men watching them from the ladder and he crossed his arms behind his back.

 

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are you alright, Captain?”

 

“I’m fine, Tom,” Chris nodded, but Tom could see the bone-deep exhaustion behind his smile. “It’s just a scratch.” He gave Tom a quick once-over, visibly relieved to find him unharmed. “You should come topside and help the men clear out some of the debris on the deck.”

 

Tom nodded, following his captain out of the dark depths of the berth, back to fresh air and clear skies.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They dropped anchor in a small, shallow-watered cove the following night. The crew was exhausted from the storm, and there were many relieved sighs when the ship’s carpenter Mr. Mills announced there would be no need to careen the ship.

 

“The lower hull is mostly intact and we’ve been able to patch all the leaks,” Mills spoke, the rest of the crew gathered around him.

 

Tom saw Chris retreat into his cabin as soon as the ship was safely moored, leaving the carpenter in charge of organizing the repairs. Mills began to give out orders, sending men ashore to look for wood for splintered railings and staircases. Due to his small size, Tom had the unfortunate luck of being part of the group responsible for cleaning the outer hull from sea weed and barnacles. He hung outside of the ship, seated on a narrow piece wood attached to two ropes, burning the foul smelling sea weed, shells and chalk-colored barnacles with a small torch.

 

They worked through the night, the steady clank of hammering echoing all around them, and the men sang cheerful shanties to lighten the mood.  Tom, too, joined the chorus, many of the songs now as familiar to him as the lullabies his mother used to sing to him when he was little. Chris didn’t emerge from his cabin all night, but when Tom was lowered to clear the hull below his cabin windows, he saw the captain was sprawled in his bunk, passed out from exhaustion. His face was unguarded in his sleep, and Tom took the opportunity to watch him through the thick glass. They had no surgeon on the ship, but Chris had treated the wound on his cheek himself and there was a half-emptied glass of liquor on a small table next to the bed. Back in Liverpool, adults had always represented danger in Tom’s life, and he’d spent most of his days avoiding them, hiding in narrow alleyways and empty basements, but as he watched Chris through the stained window, he realized he had never felt safer.

 

By the time Tom had finished cleaning his part of the hull, the torch was no longer than his forearm and the flames licked dangerously close to his skin. He let it fall into the still waters below and called out until Mr. Mills peered over the railing and hauled him back to the deck. He’d barely had time to sit down and draw breath when one of the older deckhands marched up to him with a crate full of empty rum bottles.

 

“Make yourself useful, boy, and fill these up,” he barked. “We can’t be expected to work if our mouths are parched!”

 

Tom took one look at the man’s miserable, weatherworn face that resembled a melting candle, and felt no desire to argue with him. He lifted the crate into his arms and groaned inwardly, for he knew the barrels in the galley were nearly empty, which meant he’d have to head down to the hold to fill this many bottles. Tom set out to find the ship’s quartermaster, for he and the captain were the only ones with keys to the hold. Mr. Abrams handed the heavy iron key ring to Tom, too busy to even ask what he needed it for, and Tom began the dreaded descent into the very bowels of the ship.

 

He hated visiting the hold, and he’d only been there once before when Mr. Hobbs had sent him to fetch some vinegar. As he descended the ladders, the scent of sweat and piss that pervaded their sleeping quarters was replaced with the salty, foul smell of stagnant bilge water. There were no lit lanterns past the orlop deck, and Tom had to set the crate down in order to feel around for the lantern that was meant to hang somewhere near the ladder. He found it after some fumbling, his fingers hitting the metal surface, and he did a quick job of lighting the wick inside the glass casing.

 

He went through the keys, trying to find the right one, pushing them into the heavy iron lock until the mechanism inside clicked, granting him entrance. The wood around the door frame was so damp it was permanently swollen, and Tom had to give the door a hard shove with his shoulder before it finally moved for him. He pushed it ajar, just enough to slip inside and hung the lantern on a hook in the large beam above his head before going back for the crate.

 

The floor of the hold was flooded from the storm, the water reaching up to Tom’s shins, and the air smelled so foul that Tom had to cover his face with his neckerchief. It was pitch black beyond the small circle of light, and Tom could barely make out the outlines of crates and barrels in the distance. The cargo had been piled to form high, even stacks, tied together with sturdy rope, and there was just enough room for one man to maneuver between the narrow corridors. Tom exhaled a relieved sigh when he saw the barrels of rum were at the end of the pathway he was standing in, glad he wouldn’t have to venture deeper into the hold. The light from the lamp barely reached the barrels, but Tom thought he’d be able to see well enough as his eyes continued to adjust to the darkness, and he left the lantern in the hook by the door.

 

He took the crate in his arms, the bottles clinking as he waded through the water towards the barrels. Crouching down, he placed the first bottle under the tap and twisted the handle, watching as it began to fill with a steady stream of rum. The ship was moored in a sheltered cove and she barely moved, but this deep below the waterline, the creaks of the hull almost sounded like a living thing, moaning in the dark. Tom began to hum a quiet tune to distract himself from the ominous sounds all around him.

 

He’d filled almost half of the bottles when a sudden draft from the door made his skin prickle. Tom held his breath, peering over his shoulder, listening closely. For a moment, it seemed like the ship had gone quiet around him, but the silence broke abruptly when the rusty hinges of the door let out a loud wail. Tom felt his heart leap into his throat and he shot up to his feet, a half-full bottle of rum clutched in his hand.

 

“Hello?” he called out, his voice no more than a whisper. The door was pushed open, and Tom dropped the bottle from his grip when he saw the waxy face of Abraham Fletcher materialize from the darkness.

 

“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” Fletcher drawled. He stepped into the lamplight, his shadow stretching towards Tom, huge and distorted. “Little Tom, all alone where no one can hear him.” Tom swallowed against the rising panic in his chest, the sinister look in Fletcher’s black eyes enough to chill his blood. “What are you doing skulking down here, boy? Not trying to avoid your duties, are you?”

 

Tom shook his head, his voice stuck in his throat. He shuffled backwards when he saw Fletcher had begun to advance down the narrow corridor, the water rippling around his feet. It would be impossible to get past him without knocking him down first. “I’m on an errand…” he finally managed.

 

“Errand, eh?” Fletcher grunted, so close now that his large form blocked the light from the lantern, leaving Tom in darkness. “Let me guess, it’s for the captain?”

 

“No!” Tom cried out. “I’m here to fill out these bottles-“

 

“Don’t lie to me, whelp!” Fletcher snarled, the sound startling Tom so badly that he stumbled against the rum barrel.

 

“I’m- I’m not lying,” he stammered. “Look for yourself!” He crouched down to pick up one of the bottles and it turned out to be a fatal mistake.

 

Fletcher jumped him before Tom had time to look up. He felt the weight of large, rough hands on his shoulders as he was spun around, followed by a kick to his left knee, but it was the surprise more than the pain that sent him sprawling on the ground. Tom cried out when Fletcher grabbed hold of his hair and pressed his face into the cold bilge water. He thrashed against the weight that settled on his hips, strong thighs pressing against his sides and holding him down. Fletcher was a man in his prime, hardy and foul-tempered, and Tom knew he’d never be able to best him in a fight. He tried to use his arms to push himself up to get his face out of the water, catching random words as Fletcher grunted above him.

 

“Greedy tosspot … needs to learn how to share … makes him think … all to himself?”

 

“… help!” Tom cried out, bucking his hips in a desperate attempt to knock Fletcher off of him, but the man didn’t budge, his hook-like fingers wrapping around Tom’s throat and digging into his windpipe.

 

“Cease your struggling, whore!” Fletcher growled. “You’ll give it to the captain but not to me? He aint’ that special!” Rough fingers gripped Tom’s hair and his head was yanked so far back that Tom could hear the joints pop. Fletcher’s rancid breath hit Tom’s cheek as the man leaned closer, his tobacco-stained tongue coming out to flick against Tom’s ear. “If you won’t give it to me, I’ll just have to _take it_.”

 

The grip in Tom’s hair tightened and Fletcher pushed his head down with so much force that Tom’s forehead hit the sturdy floor plank beneath the water. Pain exploded behind his eyes and all he heard was blood rushing in his ears. His assailant held him down and Tom felt the man’s other hand reach for the waist of his breeches, tugging them down to expose his ass. The realization that he was going to drown and this foul beast of a man was going to force himself inside Tom’s lifeless body drove the air from his lungs in a burst of bubbles. Tom scrabbled, his hands reaching out blindly in the water as he tried to struggle out of the death-grip Fletcher had on his hair, but he could barely move, his cheek pressed into the slimy floor plank. His lungs began to burn, desperate for air, and Tom bit his cheek to keep himself from opening his mouth.

 

He was vaguely aware that there were suddenly strange vibrations against his aching face. Hurried thumps that appeared to be growing louder with each passing second. The next thing he knew, the hands on him disappeared and Fletcher’s heavy bulk was lifted from his back. A large arm wrapped around his waist and yanked him up, but it was gone the moment Tom’s face was out of the water.

 

He fell on his arse, gasping for breath, and looking up, he saw Chris standing between himself and Mr. Fletcher, who’d been thrown all the way to the other end of the narrow corridor. Chris cast a glance at Tom over his shoulder.

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

Tom shook his head, his hands trembling as he tugged on his breeches to pull them back up. He heard the telltale sound of a pistol being cocked and when he looked up again he saw Chris had Fletcher at gun-point, his flintlock pistol pointed straight at Fletcher’s enraged face. There were more hurried steps descending the ladder outside, and a moment later, the quartermaster and the bosun rushed in through the hold door.

 

“Wait, I can- I can explain- I-I,” Fletcher stammered, but Chris didn’t give him a chance to speak.

 

“Put him in the brig,” he barked, his voice harsher than Tom had ever heard it before.

 

The bosun grabbed Fletcher by the collar of his sweat-stained blouse and hauled him up to his feet, the man’s loud curses echoing back from the staircase as he was dragged up to the orlop deck.

 

Chris put his pistol back to its holster at his hip and turned his eyes to Tom. “Mr. Abrams told me he gave you his keys…” He crouched down and held out his arms, and Tom grabbed hold of his coat sleeves with trembling hands, but he could barely feel his feet, unable to lift himself up. Chris leaned closer and wrapped his large arms around Tom’s flanks, pulling him to his lap. He got up to his feet and allowed Tom to wrap his legs around his waist as he clung to Chris’s shoulders. “Shhh, you’re alright,” he murmured, his fingers combing through Tom’s wet curls, soothing the pain in his scalp. “You’re alright, Tom.”

 

Tom couldn’t help it. He drew in a stuttering breath and the next thing he knew, he was sobbing into Chris’s shoulder, his body shaking with excess adrenaline. Chris continued to murmur quiet assurances, his palm pressed against the crown of Tom’s head as Tom continued to weep. He didn’t even notice they had left the hold, the world around him growing brighter as Chris carried him up the ladder, and they didn’t stop until they had reached the hatch that led up to the main deck. He set Tom down before they had ascended the final few steps, and Tom became aware of the movement around him. The deck was crowded and the men were still busy repairing the ship, the early morning light making the job easier.

 

“Do you think you can walk on your own now?” Chris asked, his blue eyes full of open concern. “It’s just up to my cabin door.”

 

Tom wiped at his tear-stained cheeks, sniffing a little as he nodded. He lowered his face and kept his eyes on his feet as he made his way across the deck, feeling Chris’s eyes on his back. No one paid them any attention, and even the deckhand who had originally sent Tom on his errand had managed to conjure up a bottle of rum, his earlier demands forgotten.

 

Chris ushered Tom into his cabin and closed the door behind them. Tom stood in the middle of the small room, his soaking wet clothes dripping water on the lacquered floor. He balled his hands into fists, his teeth clattering from a bone-deep chill.

 

“Here, let’s get you out of these,” Chris murmured, hurrying over to help Tom out of his wet clothes.

 

He started with the neckerchief, tugging it over Tom’s head and there was a wet smack when it hit the floor at their feet. Chris moved on to the woolen jacket, now twice as heavy from all the water it had soaked, and the room began to stink of the foul, stagnant water in the hold, a mix of rotting wood and dead seaweed. It was as if the stench was inside Tom’s nostrils, absorbed into his very skin, and he wanted to gag. Chris pulled his blouse over his head and Tom let him help him out of his breeches, Chris’s touch gentle compared to the violent yanking Fletcher had done as he’d attempted to pull Tom’s pants down. The last to go were his socks and shoes and he stood before Chris completely naked and shivering from cold. Chris rummaged through one of the small cabinets near the bunk and retrieved a spare blanket. He wrapped it around Tom’s shoulders, the coarse wool prickly against his bare skin, but Tom was thankful for the warmth it provided.

 

“I’m going to have to go to the galley to fetch some hot water for you,” Chris told him, heading towards the door. Tom’s eyes widened with alarm and he took a few stumbling steps before a gentle arm on his chest stopped him. “Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door behind me. No one is going to come in here without my permission.”

 

Tom wandered to the window as he waited for Chris to return. Clutching the heavy blanket around his shoulders, he watched the sun climb higher in the sky, the recent storm long since passed. In the morning light the nightmare in the hold felt like a distant fever dream, as if it had happened to someone else. He didn’t know how long he stood by the windows, but he was startled out of his stupor when the door was pushed open and Chris hurried inside. He was carrying a large metal basin full of steaming water and he set it down in the middle of the cabin, backtracking to close and lock the door.

 

“Alright, come here,” he said, his eyes kind as he beckoned Tom closer. Tom went without hesitation, and he let Chris remove the blanket and help him step into the water. “Careful, it could be hot.”

 

Tom dipped his toes in, the water almost scalding against his cold skin, but it didn’t take long for his body to adjust and he stepped into the basin, standing in the middle of it. Chris removed his coat, setting it neatly on the back of the large chair by his desk. He kicked off his soaked boots and rolled up the sleeves of his blouse, fetching a clean cloth from the cabinet where he stored his shaving kit. He knelt on the floor before Tom and soaked the cloth in the hot water. Looking up, he offered it to Tom.

 

“You prefer to do it yourself?”

 

Tom shook his head, giving Chris permission to wash him.

 

Chris started with his calves, scrubbing the skin with careful, light touches. He soaked the cloth in the water before moving up to bruised knees and lean thighs. There were no proper washing facilities on a sailing ship and Chris’s gentle scrubbing didn’t compare to a proper soak in a real bath tub, but the feel of warm water on his skin was soothing. Most of it dripped back into the basin, the smell of rot and salt slowly fading away. Chris didn’t avert his gaze as he washed Tom, his eyes examining him for injuries, but there was nothing sexual about the act even as he moved the cloth over Tom’s privates. There was a dull ache behind his eyes from the collision with the floorboard, and his knee was sore from the kick Fletcher had delivered to it. Chris got up to his feet and washed Tom’s face, brushing his knuckles gently against his right cheekbone where the skin had been scraped raw by the slimy plank. He squeezed the cloth over Tom’s head a few times to wash the foul smell out of his hair.

 

“There, all done.” Chris fetched the blanket to wrap it around Tom’s narrow shoulders and helped him out of the basin. “Go on and dry yourself off while I find you something to wear.”

 

Tom was aware he hadn’t uttered a single word since Chris had carried him out of the hold, but when he tried to open his mouth, his lips remained pressed together, forming a tight, unhappy line. He watched as Chris rummaged through his slop chest and pulled out a neatly folded white blouse. He took the wet blanket from Tom and helped him into the shirt, so large that its hem came down to Tom’s mid-thigh.

 

His hands shook and his breathing was still a little uneven when Chris sat him down on his unmade bunk and went to the cabinet that held his liquor. Tom watched as Chris opened a bottle of alcohol and poured the amber liquid into a glass shaped like a bell. Chris glanced at Tom, his gaze lingering on Tom’s trembling shoulders, and he took out a locked wooden box from a cabinet near the ceiling. It contained some medical equipment, and Chris produced a small brown vial, pouring some of its contents into the drink, careful with the dosage. He put the bottle away and mixed the two liquids with his finger, but instead of licking it clean, he wiped it on his blouse.

 

Tom was surprised to realize Chris had made the drink for him.

 

“It’s a bit of brandy with a drop of laudanum in the mix,” Chris said when Tom brought the drink up to his nose to smell it. “It’ll warm you up and help you get some sleep.”

 

Tom became anxious at the thought of falling into unconsciousness and he hesitated, trying to hand the drink back to Chris.

 

“It’s alright, Tom, I won’t let anyone come in here while you sleep.” Chris cupped Tom’s neck with gentle fingers as he guided the drink to Tom’s lips. “I’ll look after you, I promise.”

 

Tom finally parted his mouth and allowed Chris to tip the glass and drank down the mix of warm fire and bitter narcotics. Chris helped him empty the whole glass, and though Tom didn’t enjoy the taste, he embraced the warmth that followed in its wake as the drink made its way to his belly. The small dose of laudanum did its job faster than Tom expected, and he felt his head nod against his chest as his eyes began to droop.

 

The last thing he heard was Chris’s murmur in his ear as he was settled down on the captain’s bunk. “Get some sleep now.”

 

 

* * *

 

When Tom awoke, the sky outside the bay window was a dark canvas dusted with dim starlight. The laudanum had left a bitter taste in his mouth and he parted his jaws to pry his tongue off the roof of his mouth. Turning his face to the right, he saw Chris was seated at his desk, his shoulders hunched as he scribbled something into his log book. It was night-time, but Chris had lit all the lamps in the cabin, driving away the darkness all around Tom.

 

Tom tried to sit up, the movement enough to catch Chris’s attention. He set his quill down and hurried to Tom’s bedside, taking a seat at his feet. “How are you feeling?” Chris laid his palm on Tom’s brow and felt his temperature, visibly relieved. “You developed a mild fever when you slept, but it seems to be going down now. I reckon it was from the cold water.” He cupped Tom’s cheek and Tom leaned his face into the warmth of his palm.

 

He blinked the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, inhaling through his nose. “I’m better,” he whispered, his throat sore. He became aware of the pillow under his head and the warm blanket wrapped around his body, and he finally realized he’d been allowed to sleep in the captain’s bed. “I-I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep in your bed. Forgive me, sir, I’ll go find my hammock-” Tom attempted to get up, but Chris pressed a gentle hand to his chest and urged him to lay his head back into the pillow. There was a soft brush of lips on his brow and he slipped back to blissful unconsciousness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tom made a full recovery in the next few days and when he was allowed to return to work, he found out Chris had relieved him of his duties in the galley to keep Tom as his personal messenger. It didn’t take long for the crew to take note of Mr. Fletcher’s absence, but only Chris, his quartermaster and the bosun knew the details of why he’d been thrown in the brig where he would remain until they reached the next friendly port. Chris informed the crew that Mr. Fletcher had been relieved of duty for breaking the ship’s articles, but no one had liked the man enough to ask for further details on the matter.

 

Tom was happy to be out of the stifling galley, but his heart nearly sang with relief when he found out Chris had fetched his hammock from the berth and it now hung in the small empty space next to the bay windows in his cabin. Even his tiny chest where he kept his spare slops had been brought up from the crew quarters.

 

Chris didn’t offer any explanation for the unexpected development, but the possessive look in his eyes was revealing enough. Tom’s cheeks were nearly glowing with how happy he was when he removed his boots and jacket and climbed into his hammock, watching as Chris continued to work at his desk across the small cabin. He would peer up from time to time, and Tom held his gaze until his eyes finally slipped closed, the ship rocking gently on the waves as someone rang the bell in the night.

 

 

 

If the crew had any objection to Tom sharing the captain’s quarters, they kept their grumblings in their belly. It was almost as if Chris had laid some unspoken claim on Tom, though most of the crew seemed to assume Tom sharing his quarters was a matter of convenience. With Fletcher rotting down in the brig, Tom’s existence was barely acknowledged. The men went about their daily routines and got drunk when they could, and Tom was happy to be ignored.

 

He was aware there had been a subtle change in his role aboard the ship, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He knew he was no longer a mere cabin boy, for Chris seemed to treat him almost as an equal in and outside of his cabin. Tom spent most of his days at Chris’s side, and he rarely sent Tom where he couldn’t keep his eye on him. When he had time, he sat Tom down to teach him how to tie different knots and how to read the winds by observing the sails. Their meals were meager, but Tom had gained enough strength in his limbs to finally climb the ratlines, learning the skill of balancing on the ropes by observing the older men.

 

“I reckon you’ll be able to man the rigging before we head back to England,” Chris called out as he watched Tom scale up and down the mizenmast, his fingers nimble on the coarse rope.

 

Chris would often work late into the night, hunched over his desk, a lone lamp hanging above his head as he studied his maps and charts. Some nights the rank stench of bilge water and the feel of rough hands invaded Tom’s dreams, but Chris would be there to draw him back from the nightmares with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t brought up what happened with Fletcher in the hold, and Tom was glad for it, for he wanted to forget the whole terrible affair, but that didn’t mean Tom wasn’t grateful for what Chris had done for him. He watched the captain as he put away his maps and sat down on his bunk to remove his knee-high boots, getting ready to turn in for the night. Tom worried his bottom lip between his teeth and cleared his throat. “Chris?” he called out in a quiet voice.

 

Chris looked up and met his eyes across the cabin. “Yes, Tom? What is it?”

 

“I just…” Tom let out a quiet breath. “ _Thank you_.”

 

Chris rose from the bed and closed the small distance between them, coming to stand by Tom’s hammock. His blue eyes were solemn, but Tom was relieved to see there was no pity in his gaze. “I’m glad I got there in time.” Chris gave his shoulder a light squeeze, the heat and weight of his palm comforting.

 

They came upon a Spanish galleon near Little Inagua in late November. Their cannons fired a few warning shots, and the crew seemed a tad disappointed when the enemy surrendered without a fight. It was in their best interest to capture their prey in one piece, but the men had been itching for an outlet for all the restless energy they had amassed during the long voyage. Tom was sure he’d be left out of the boarding crew, and it surprised him when Chris handed him a small cutlass and invited him to join him as he led the men aboard the captured vessel. Mr. Poole gaped at him when he saw Tom marching along the gangway by his side, his weapon held high in a firm grip, and to Tom’s utter surprise, the man let out a loud guffaw and smacked Tom on the back companionably.

 

“Guess I was wrong about you, lad,” Poole conceded.

 

The Spanish captain offered his surrender, and Chris allowed his crew to remain unharmed. He sent a group of men down into the hold, but told Tom to remain at his side when he saw the fear that lit up in his eyes. The ship’s cargo didn’t have any gold or silver, but they were able to refill their stocks with what they found. The men were treated to some fresh fruit and rum and the spirits aboard the Trade Wind ran high that night.

 

“Are you quite certain you don’t want to join the fun, Tom?” Chris asked when Tom took a seat at the desk, ready to begin his daily lesson.

 

“Why wouldn't I be?”

 

Chris shook his head, bewildered. “You’d rather spend your evening with me, cooped up in our cabin than dance a jig and make merry?”

 

Tom didn’t even hear the rest of the question, his mind caught up on one single thing: _our cabin_. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, his cheeks dimpling as he turned his eyes to Chris. It seemed that Chris, too, had realized his choice of words, for his face appeared a bit flushed under his thick beard. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting between Tom and his own boots.

 

“Well, if you’re certain…”

 

Tom gave an eager nod. “I am.”

 

He’d made good progress over the past few days and he was now able to read short segments of text from actual books. Chris went to the tiny bookshelf carved into the hull above his bunk and retrieved a small book. Aside from the slight spots of water damage on the cover, the book was in good condition.

 

Chris tapped the cover with his finger. “Can you read the title for me?”

 

Tom leaned closer, tracing the individual letters with the tip of his finger. “M-i-d-s-o-m-m-e-r,” he spelled. “Midsommer?” Chris gave a nod, urging Tom to continue. It took him a while before he’d made out each word, but Chris waited patiently, allowing Tom to take his time and correcting him when he mistook letters for others. “ _A Midsommer Nights Dreame_  written by William Shakespeare.”

 

“That’s right,” Chris smiled, reaching over to give Tom’s curls a light ruffle. “It’s a rather humorous play. I think you’ll like it.”

 

Tom opened the first page and cleared his throat as he began to read. It was slow going and he often had to pause to spell out some of the longer words before they took form and gained a proper meaning in his mind.

 

“Who is Hippolita?” Tom asked, looking up from the text.

 

“She’s the queen of the Amazons,” Chris explained. “She’s betrothed to Theseus, the duke of Athens.”

 

Tom nodded and lowered his eyes back to the book. There were some weird words in the text, ones he’d never heard before, their meaning completely lost to him. He looked up again, glancing over his shoulder to the daybed where Chris had begun to whittle on a fresh piece of wood as he listened to Tom read.

 

“What are nuptials?” Tom asked.

 

Chris looked up from his woodwork. His expression shifted and when he spoke, his accent came out thicker than usual. “It’s another word for a wedding. You’ll soon find out it’s a major theme in the play.”

 

Tom licked his lips, stealing a quick glance at Chris’s hands. His knuckles had tiny scrapes and the back of his hand was brown from the sun. Tom didn’t know what made him say it, but the question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

 

“Are _you_  married?”

 

Chris blinked, his brows climbing up, and Tom could tell he had surprised him with his question. “No, Tom, I’m not married.” Chris shifted on the daybed and turned to look out of the windows. “I was younger than you when I set foot on a ship for the first time. I’ve spent most of my life at sea.”

 

“But you could still find someone…”

 

Chris looked over his shoulder to meet Tom’s eyes. He shook his head, his face oddly guarded. “I don’t think married life is for me.”

 

“Oh…” Tom blurted, his shoulders sinking a little. There was an odd heavy sensation in his chest, something akin to disappointment.

 

Chris set the carving aside and put the knife back in its sheath. “Anyway, it’s not easy to meet someone when you spend your days cooped up on a ship with eighty men.”

 

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, a little stubborn huff escaping his lips. “But aren’t you lonely?”

 

Chris got up from the daybed and joined Tom at the desk. He laid his arm over the back of the chair and crouched to meet Tom’s eyes. “Everyone gets lonely, Tom,” Chris replied.

 

“But you wouldn’t have to be alone if…”

 

“Yes?” Chris whispered, the chair creaking as he leaned closer. Tom felt the heat from his body surround him, and there was something expectant in Chris’s eyes, as if he was waiting for Tom to say something specific.

 

“I could…” Tom’s gaze fell to Chris’s mouth, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the captain’s hand clench and unclench where it rested on the table. “I could…” he repeated, but his words were lost to him, and he lurched forward, leaning up to press his mouth against Chris’s.

 

He’d only ever heard about the act of kissing in the filthy tales the sailors told in their leisure, boasting about their many conquests. His own kiss was clumsy, his puckered lips pressed against the corner of Chris’s mouth. The whiskers above Chris’s upper lip tickled his skin and he felt a warm gust of breath against his cheek as Chris exhaled slowly through his nose.

 

For a brief moment, nothing happened, and Tom felt his cheeks flare up with heat, thinking he’d made a terrible mistake, but then there were fingers at his nape, tilting his head to the side as Chris parted his mouth and brushed his tongue against Tom’s lips, coaxing them open. Tom relaxed his mouth from the tight purse and allowed Chris to taste him, and it was as if a dam had broken between them, Tom’s initial kiss the permission Chris had been waiting for. His fingers sank into Tom’s hair as he licked into his mouth, his kiss hot and urgent, traces of the wine he liked to drink in the evenings lingering on his tongue.

 

When they finally drew apart for air, Chris’s face was awash with relief. “You don’t want me to be alone, sweetheart?” he murmured, his fingers tracing the pink shell of Tom’s ear.

 

Tom shook his head and wound his arms around Chris’s thick neck, his fingers clutching at the loosely tied plait at his nape. His head was tilted to the side and Chris leaned in to mouth at Tom’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin. There was a low, rumbling grunt of satisfaction and the sound sent Tom's spine tingling. His chest arched as he leaned into the caress, exposing his neck for Chris, but the position was awkward with Chris looming over him, one arm pressed against the table. Chris let out a frustrated grunt and Tom whimpered at the loss of his lips when he pulled away. The chair was yanked back, and Chris slipped his hands around Tom’s waist to pull him up. Tom was pliant in his arms, wrapping his legs around Chris’s hips as large palms cupped his arse. There was a softly murmured curse, and Tom knew Chris could feel the hard shape of his prick where it was straining against his stomach, already leaking out drops of seed. Tom flushed, but his hold on Chris’s shoulder’s tightened when Chris tilted his own hips and Tom felt an answering hardness against his buttocks.

 

Boisterous laughter and loud cheers carried through the door, but the sounds of the crew’s merrymaking were distant in Tom’s ears. It was as if he and Chris were in a world of their own. Tom was pressed against the wall next to his hammock, and Chris ground against him, his thrusts erratic as he leaned down to mouth at the hollow of Tom’s throat, laying his claim on him with tongue and teeth. His jacket was yanked from his shoulders and there was some awkward fumbling as Chris tried to shrug off his own frock. When the heavy coat finally fell on the floor, Chris took him to the narrow bed on the other side of the cabin, lowering Tom on the coarse wool blanket. Tom traced the shape of Chris’s muscles through the thin cotton of his blouse and he let Chris part his thighs and settle down between them. The bed groaned under their combined weight and Tom crossed his ankles to pull Chris’s body flush against his own, greedy for friction. Chris gave a rumbling laugh at Tom’s impatience. He reached back to tug on Tom’s ankle and Tom let him go, his mouth twisting into a pout.

 

“I don’t want to make a mess of my trousers,” Chris said, and glancing down, Tom saw the fabric was pulled taut on the front of his breeches.

 

Chris hovered above Tom as he began to undo the belts around his hips, mouthing at his jaw and dropping light kisses to the soft skin above Tom’s Adam’s apple, the scratch of his beard strange but not unpleasant. The belts fell on the floor with a loud thump and Tom watched as he pushed his pants down his thighs and reached between them to wrap his fingers around his cock. The hem of the blouse was in the way, obscuring Tom’s view and he reached down to yank the garment up. His eyes widened at the sight of Chris’s bare cock, the want in his belly suddenly so overwhelming that he struggled to draw breath. Chris gave himself a long, slow stroke, the foreskin retracting with the movement to reveal a large, bulbous head. A clear bead of fluid pushed out from the slit, and Tom watched, transfixed, as it grew in size with the upward stroke, so heavy it fell on the front of Tom’s own breeches.

 

Chris let go of his cock and kicked his boots off his feet, stepping out of his pants. His eyes were dark with want, but he knelt down by the bed and traced his knuckles along Tom’s brow. “You want this?”

 

Tom was no stranger to the idea of sex, for he’d seen his share of working girls back on the streets of Liverpool, some of them teasing him with naughty propositions. But he’d never truly desired them, always hurrying past the painted lips and ample bosoms, pretending he didn’t hear the giggles and soft hoots that followed him. Tom took in the lines under Chris’s eyes and the spots of grey in his beard around his chin. The gash he’d received in the storm had healed into a red line, and Tom traced it with the tip of his finger, following it down from the side of his nose to where it disappeared in his thick beard. He felt no urge to run, eager to give himself to Chris, and wrapping his fingers around the collar of Chris’s blouse, he pulled him down for a kiss.

 

Chris let out a relieved breath. “Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s get you undressed.”

 

Tom lay back as Chris reached down to undo the small leather belt around his waist. He arched his hips a little and Chris pulled it out of the buckle, dropping it on the floor next to his own belts. His pants were visibly tented as Chris began to open the buttons of his breeches, and Tom felt himself grow even harder when he saw Chris lower his eyes down to where his cock strained against the fabric. Chris glanced up at Tom, his smile sly, and Tom let out a little gasp as Chris popped open the final button, the flat of his palm pressing against his cock. Tom couldn’t stop himself from thrusting up, his hips rising from the bed, and Chris let him take his pleasure, withdrawing briefly to lower Tom’s pants to his thighs. Tom bit the meat of his palm as his cock was pulled out of his smallclothes. He glanced down and saw Chris’s eyes were fixed on his prick, his breaths growing ragged as he studied the shape and size of it. Tom sucked his lower lip between his teeth, a little self-conscious, but Chris pushed Tom’s blouse up to splay his fingers on his belly, leaning down to plant a trail of kisses around his navel.

 

“You’re lovely,” he murmured.

 

Chris kissed his way up to Tom’s narrow chest, soothing the burn of his whiskers with his lips. He pushed Tom’s shirt higher and flicked his thumb against his left nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. Tom arched into the touch, his hands holding on to Chris’s long hair, and he knew he was going to spill soon, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He rocked up, desperate for friction and unable to decide if he wanted Chris’s mouth or his fingers. Chris laughed low in his throat, and he surprised Tom with a soft kiss to the tip of his stiff prick. Tom went wild at the unexpected caress. His cock pushed against Chris’s lips as he thrust up, but Chris had already withdrawn, his eyes amused as he flicked out his tongue to taste the clear liquid that glistened on his lips .

 

Tom let out a frustrated little huff. “Please…” he sighed, his eyes unfocused.

 

Chris wrapped his hand firmly around Tom’s cock, his thumb and forefinger pressed against the tip to pull back his foreskin, and that was all it took to send Tom over the edge. His back arched up from the bed, his blunt nails digging into Chris’s shoulders as his cock pulsed out thick drops of seed.

 

Chris’s eyes grew wide with surprise, but he caught up quickly, using his hand to collect the rest of Tom’s release in his palm. When the final drops of seed had been milked out, Chris let go of Tom’s softening cock and pressed a kiss to his naked hip. “No one’s ever touched you before?” he chuckled, his face shrouded in shadows as the flame in the lantern above them flickered.

 

Tom shook his head, swallowing thickly. He released his hold on Chris’s shoulders and his hand fell limply at his sides, his chest rising and falling with his ragged breaths. Chris got up to his feet, careful to keep the seed he’d collected in his palm from spilling.

 

“I'll take good care of you,” Chris murmured, urging Tom to move towards the wall and make room on the bed.

 

Tom pushed his pants the rest of the way down, kicking them off with his shoes. The bunk was small, and it took some careful arranging before Chris had managed to climb in and settle on his side behind Tom.

 

“Lean against me,” Chris whispered, and Tom pressed his back against his broad chest. “That’s it, a little closer. Good.”

 

There was barely any space left between the cabin wall and Chris’s large bulk, and Tom glanced over his shoulder, wondering what would happen next. He felt Chris’s cock poking against the bare skin of his upper thighs, hard and almost searing, and he jerked away from it, its size and weight startling him.

 

Chris seemed to sense his hesitation and he pressed a kiss to Tom’s shoulder where his blouse had slipped down to reveal a patch of freckled skin. “It’s alright, this isn’t going to hurt,” he murmured, “just relax.”

 

Chris slipped his hand between Tom’s naked thighs, slick with cooling seed, and Tom looked down as he began to spread it all over the soft skin of his inner thighs, his long fingers sliding between his buttocks.

 

“Are you going to-“

 

“No, not tonight,” Chris whispered, his lips soft against Tom’s temple. “The bed is too small and I don’t have anything to ease the pain.” Tom could hear the want in Chris’s strained voice, the fingers between his buttocks brushing against his hole. “Perhaps when we’re home in England.”

 

“Do you-“ Tom’s breath caught in his throat when he felt the back of Chris’s hand press against his sac. His prick gave a jerk as it began to harden once more. “Do you have a house of your own?”

 

“Not yet,” Chris replied, mouthing at Tom’s shoulder. He pushed his hand past Tom’s thighs to fondle at his half-hard cock. “But I own land in Dover, by the seaside, with plenty of room to build…”

 

The bed creaked when Chris threw his leg over Tom’s hip and he withdrew his hand to slip his prick between the soft crease of Tom’s thighs. Tom cried out at Chris’s first tentative thrust, the heavy girth of his cock brushing against Tom’s sac. Chris traced his hand up along Tom’s flank and slid it underneath the loose blouse, his long fingers splayed against his chest.

 

“All these weeks, having you in my cabin... You have no idea how I’ve wanted you…” Chris confessed, and there was something raw and vulnerable in his voice. He cupped Tom’s flat chest under the blouse, his blunt nails digging into the soft skin. “But I wasn’t certain if you-“

 

“I did!” Tom gasped, turning his head to look at Chris over his shoulder. “I _do_.”

 

Chris met his gaze and his hips ceased their thrusting. He rose up to lean against his elbow and lowered his head to claim Tom’s lips in a gentle kiss. “Sweetheart…”

 

Tom let out a content little mewl, his eyes falling closed at the softly-murmured endearment. He thought of hearing it first thing in the morning as they lay in a proper bed back home in England, the smell of clean cotton and blooming harebells in the room. Their feet were tangled together, Chris’s large thigh thrown over Tom’s hip to hold him still as he rocked into him. Tom squeezed the edge of the pillow in his fist, his other hand pressed against the painted wood of the cabin wall. His shoulders drew up and he arched against Chris’s chest when Chris reached over his hip, his fingers brushing against Tom’s cock before settling on his belly.

 

“Please,” Tom panted. “I want… I want-”

 

 

“Yes?” Chris inquired, and Tom could hear the smirk in his voice. “Tell me.”

 

“Touch me… here.”

 

Chris let Tom take hold of his hand and Tom pushed it down to his cock, rutting against it until Chris finally wrapped his fingers around his stiff prick, the head rosy and wet where it poked out from Chris’s palm.

 

“Little minx,” Chris murmured fondly, tracing the slit with his thumb. “You’re going to be insatiable, I can tell.” He stroked Tom from root to tip, hard and fast, and Tom gasped into the pillow, his toes curling against Chris’s calves as he began to spill. “There you go,” Chris whispered, moving his hand up to catch Tom’s release.

 

He came even harder than before, his fingers tapping against the wall as his orgasm rolled over him. Behind his back, Chris continued to thrust into the warm, tight space between Tom’s thighs, his movements turning jerky as he chased his own pleasure. Once Tom’s cock had stopped pulsing, Chris let go, grabbing hold of his hip and he pulled Tom’s arse flush against his groin until Tom’s cheeks were pushed apart by the thick girth of his cock. Chris buried his face in the crook of Tom’s neck, his grip on his hip slipping as he thrust with abandon. He wrapped his arm around Tom’s narrow chest, and Tom felt Chris’s rumbling, hot grunts against his skin as he began to spill. He hurried to reach down and cup the head of Chris’s cock where it poked out between his legs, but most of his copious seed spilled against Tom’s sac, fat drops of it landing on the rumpled quilt.

 

The air in the cabin had turned humid, and Tom’s blouse clung to his back, the bridge of his nose glistening with tiny beads of sweat. The bed creaked as Chris sat up to pull his blouse over his head. He wiped his hands clean and wrapped his fingers around Tom’s knee to lift his leg and clean the mess he’d made between his thighs. Tossing the soiled blouse to the floor, he settled down and wrapped his arm around Tom’s belly, pulling him close. He dropped a kiss to the crown of Tom’s head, nuzzling his curls with his nose. Tom could feel the beat of Chris’s heart against his spine, the steady thumbs soothing, and he had almost drifted off to sleep when Chris’s low murmur pulled him back to consciousness.

 

 

“I reckon this will be our last trip to the Indies.”

 

It took Tom a moment to focus his senses and for the words to connect. He glanced over his shoulder, his brows arched up in question.

 

“I hear they’re working on a treaty to put an end to all privateering. If we continue, we’ll be hanged as pirates.”

 

Tom’s eyes grew wide at the word ‘pirate’ and his hand flew up to cup his neck protectively. “What will you do?”

 

Chris reached up to take Tom’s hand in his own, entwining their fingers. “I’ll sail back to England, go back home to Dover.” His gaze flicked to their linked fingers and he gave Tom’s hand a light squeeze. “I’ve saved enough to build a house… Who knows, maybe I’ll take up farming, get some sheep-“

 

“And a cow?” Tom added excitedly, his mind busy picturing it. “For fresh milk.”

 

Chris smiled, his eyes crinkling. “And a cow for fresh milk.”

 

They fell silent, and Tom could see the unspoken question written all over Chris’s face. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing a small house up on a white cliff, the salty breeze shaking the tall grass as it blew from the sea. He blinked his eyes open when he felt Chris’s thumb trace the shape of his knuckles. Tom shifted in the narrow space on the bed to turn around in Chris’s arms. He raised his hand to cup his face, running his fingers through the coarse hairs of Chris’s thick beard, the broad smile on his lips answer enough.


End file.
